Apr 3, 2026 5 min read

If retirement has taught me anything, it’s that patience has certainly become a virtue … of sorts. I can recall as a lad, peering out the windows of Jefferson-Morgan High School, the rain falling in the afternoon during baseball season. “How could God possibly allow it to rain on game day?” Certainly my priorities were askew as a misguided teen but it was baseball season, after all, passion notwithstanding.

These days, as an umpire, I simply stand on the porch drinking a cup of coffee and wait for the email notification that says “We’re cancelled for the day.” Then I go about my daily business or my writing or my chores, no worse for the wear. Not quite the same level of passion nor engagement, now is it?

Same goes for trout fishing. There was a time when I looked forward to trout fishing almost as much as I did for deer season. Almost. I don’t remember high water getting in the way as much in those days. As of late, it seems like the high-water mark of the spring rains almost always correlates with the trout opener. If memory serves me correctly, the last three opening days have been near washout status.

So what’s a fisherman/woman to do? Well, there’s always organizing the tackle box. I must admit that I’m guilty of cluttering up the base camp for all things hook, line and sinker. Literally. If I don’t do some quick “redding up” of the tackle box, then I’m liable not to be able to find much of anything, come first day, at least without an inconvenient search along the stream. For that matter, I should probably give the fishing vest a good once over as well. In fact it could use a laundering, too.

Admittedly, I have good organizational intent but there is a disconnect between my theory and my practice. I am an old film canister hoarder from way back. Used to have dozens on hand. Now I’m left with only a handful. Nothing holds hooks, swivels, snaps, splitshots like a 35mm old-fashioned film canister. But as I get to sifting through the contents of my rusty, ancient, metal, fishing container, I suddenly develop a deep need to hold onto the spool of braided black line from the 1940s that Dad kept in his tackle box. If I actually unspooled it, there’s a good chance it might disintegrate all together.

Then there is the package of snelled hooks from the 1970s with the Eagle Claw Man on the package. I don’t know why he is smiling at me nor why he looks so much like my father. Maybe he knows what a lousy fisherman I am, deep down? He seems to be directing a sort of sneer my way. But I digress. At any rate, we can’t throw away four perfectly good rusty hooks now can we? Same goes for the menagerie of hundreds of rusty loose hooks inside the giant pill bottle positioned adjacent.

Do you think that anyone needs 23 bobbers in their tackle box? Orange and yellow, neon green, pink for little girls, some red and white jobs from the 1960s; even a few wooden hand-carved, hand-painted numbers from Grandpap’s shop back on Roger’s Hill. Making bobbers seemed to keep Pap out of the house and out from under Grandma’s feet. At his death, there must have been 200 bobbers hanging from the ceiling of his shop. What if friends arrive? What if a bus load of kindergartners off-loads at the local stream and they run fresh out of line floats? I’ll not permit them to take that chance.

There is an old handline laying in the bottom of my tackle box back under the flip-down shelf that does not flip down very easily any more. You say you’re not familiar with a handline? I’m not really sure what its use is either but everyone I knew had one in their tackle boxes growing up. I think it’s kept maybe in case your only pole becomes lost or damaged and one is confronted with an onslaught of fish. So as not to be caught off guard, one simply unrolls the mason’s line from around the scrap of shovel handle, baits the leadered hook and commences to saving the fishing experience. I have used my hand line exactly twice in my life. Once in Colorado when I discovered a hole full of trout near supper time and didn’t want to alert my buddies downstream. The other was to catch bluegill at Waynesburg Lakes when another kid was using my pole. Both times it was equally impressive as I’m sure you can imagine?

Once the tackle box is cleaned out, the waders have been patched and bait has been acquired. I’d suggest seining for your own minnows just for fun. After that it’s simply a matter of waiting for the creeks to go down so that we can return to fun. Good old-fashioned patience is all we have to fall back on.

From the looks of the extended forecast, Saturday isn’t looking all that promising weatherwise. Maybe I’ll just have another cup of coffee? Good luck out there landing the big one.

Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com